


Heated

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, Figging, M/M, Rimming, Safe Sane and Consensual, and kinky as hell, because that's important, pretty much pure filth, this fic is dirty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:24:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Bond and Q play around with ginger and its many uses outside the kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heated

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for one of the Bond kink memes, because I stumbled across a prompt for one of my favorite kinks to write. Definitely a bit smuttier than my other Bond fics, with playful BDSM elements.

“It’s about increased pain tolerance.”  

“Oh, is that what it’s about?” Q waggles his rear end playfully, arching his spine to present a prettier picture.  ”I thought it was about funny business with my arse.”  Bond grins, skimming a thumb across the flesh offered.  

“Oh, well,” Bond says, pulling the pad of that thumb into his mouth, his smile teeth when he notices Q watching.  He drops the hand, folding Q open with the knuckles to smear wet across the furled opening he finds.  Q’s lashes flutter but he smiles sweet.  ”There is that.”

“Shall I pretend I’ve never done anything like this before?  I can play,” Q says around the cheeky grin that’s forming on his face, even as a handsome flush squirms its way across the tops of his ears and down the slender line of his spine to curl in the pit at the small of his back.  The twin hollows of his dimples of Venus are just the right size for Bond to fit his palms around; Q’s breath hitches on a laugh, “the unassuming Victorian virgin for you.”

“Will you?” Bond asks critically.  Q laughs again, more breathless than the first.  ”I thought not.”

“Do hurry up and get it in me, Double-oh-Seven.  I’m getting impatient,” Q tells him instead, rocking on his elbows on the back of the chair.  

“Bossy thing, aren’t you?” Bond asks, voice fond.

“You’ve no idea yet,” Q retorts.  ”No worries.  You shall.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Not as much as I do.”

Bond arches a brow but doesn’t rise to the bait, leaning instead to bite a cruel kiss against Q’s spine.  The sound Q makes is delicious, half choke and half cry, bitten off and sudden, melting into an indulgent moan.

“Tie my wrists, Bond, please,” he orders, squirming until he’s stretched precariously from the back of the chair.  His elbows buckle in the empty air; his wrists are patiently crossed and waiting against the rungs while Bond fetches Q’s belt and loops it around them.  Q tugs experimentally, then, satisfied, cants his hips until they fall open, posture gloriously loose and submissive.  ”Thank you.  May I call you sir?”

And Bond has to loosen his tie at that, going so far as to tug off his cuff links to drop them in a pocket before rolling his sleeves up to the elbow.  ”I think you had better.  And you?”

The sine-curve of Q’s body undulates for a moment; Bond can see his chest shift as he drags in a deep breath.  “‘Boy’ will do.”

“Stoplights or safety words?”

“Cantilever.”

“Good boy.”  

“Thank you, sir.”

Bond ignores that in favor of resting his palm on the deep bow of Q’s spine.  It looks uncomfortable, but he won’t deny the absolutely stunning effect the posture has on the boy’s arse, pale and lovely and on display.  ”Normally, this exercise would involve spanking.  Red, yellow, or green?”

“Yellow, sir.  I’ve a program to write in the morning, and a bit of issue sitting can be fun, but not for hours and not at bloody MI-6,” Q answers promptly.

“Palm then, just a few.  For the attitude,” Bond tells him with a half-smile.  Q returns it.

“The swearing, sir?” Q asks.

“I don’t give a fuck what comes out of your mouth so long as it’s begging,” Bond tells him, small smile growing wider as he watches Q fight the urge to roll his eyes and the urge to shudder at the same time.  ”Do you care for spicy foods, boy?”

“At times, sir?”  Q tips his head to the side, frowning.

“Would you like something to warm that pretty mouth while I prepare our experiment today?” Bond clarifies, and Q’s eyes widen in understanding.  His mouth opens obediently and Bond picks up the hand of ginger, quickly shaving off a narrow curl of fragrant yellow flesh from the end of one of the thick fingers.  Q’s tongue is soft, warm and absolutely dripping with want as Bond strokes it; he laps at the oils on his fingers with eyes already falling hazy and distant.  ”Ah,” Bond tuts when they drop closed, gently coaxing his fingers free.  ”Open.”  The little strip is pungent and wickedly sharp; Q’s lips pink with blood even as they close around it.

“Thank you, sir,” Q manages, eyes pinned to Bond as he draws his glistening fingers to his own mouth.

“Delicious.”  

He leans against the table as he peels the rest of the finger.  It’s fat, thick as a finger and a half of his own hand, maybe two.  From this vantage point, Q can watch as he whittles it into the necessary shape, and he can watch Q’s mouth work around the fire that’s forming, lips parting discreetly to suck in cooling air before his cheeks hollow to swallow back the saliva pooling in his mouth.  The chair between them hides the erection, but he can see arousal in the starbursts of Q’s eyes and the hot roses blooming down the front of his chest; his lips are swelling; Bond wants to fuck that mouth.

When he finishes the plug, he sets it gently in the bowl of water beside and holds his palm beneath Q’s mouth.  Q releases the curl of woody fiber reluctantly, and the inside of his mouth looks raw and wet.  ”Wouldn’t want you to choke, darling,” Bond reminds him gently, stroking the line of those thin lips.  ”At least not just yet.”

“Thank you, sir,” Q says, and fuck him but the boy sounds wrecked already, hoarse as if he’s already been screaming or sucking cock, eyes steady and impossibly hot.  Bond wants to be the one to beg, but he smiles and picks up the glass bowl, moving behind him to place it on the arched line of his back.  

“Normally, I wouldn’t,” Bond says conversationally as Q struggles to keep still and not drop the bowl.  Water rings against its sides; he hisses when it splashes onto overheated skin.  ”Not without lube, care, and preparation,” Bond continues.  He dips his fingers into the water, carefully dripping down Q’s spine until he reaches Q’s arse.  Bond shakes the last drops free, admiring the stilted flinch that never fully realizes, then repeats the action.  When the wet begins to collect, pooling into a trickle that makes Q shift on the balls of his feet, he laughs. 

“I’ve been reasonably assured it won’t be necessary this time.  That it might be,” he pauses, stroking his wet fingers directly up the crease of Q’s arse before lapping the water from them.  ”Detrimental.  Wouldn’t get the full effect—it might ruin the experiment.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Q says, but it’s more shaken than he intends, and Bond lets it slide.  For now.

“So you’ll just have to be a bit patient, my dear, while I work this thing in,” Bond tells him, finally seating the blunted end against his hole.  ”You will let me know if it’s too much?” he murmurs against Q’s ear, and Q’s attitude thaws, eyes growing open and fond.

“Yes, of course.” 

“Good.”  

The first push is easy, the root slick with water and Q’s body receptive.  He gives a wriggle that is nothing but sass, and Bond gives him a lazy swat that makes him purr.  ”Wanton.”

“Tease.”  The next swat is harder, less playful.  Q swallows hard, throat bobbing with the effort.  ”Yes, sir.  Sorry, sir,” he says hotly, pressing his lips to the inside of his own arm.

“Spread your legs a bit wider,” Bond says, kicking Q’s bare feet apart until he’s stretched fine and tight, braced against his elbows to keep his face from dropping to his chest.  The sound that uncurls between them as Bond shoves the last two inches is sweet and mournful, and Bond twists the base just to drag it out.  When the sound is gone, Bond pulls away, admiring the little circle of yellow where it peeks out, the base flared enough to keep it from disappearing like the rest of it.  ”Christ,” Bond says, awed.  ”I don’t know which I want more: to beat you until you can’t stand anymore, or to lick you to the same result.”

Q mumbles raggedly; Bond lifts his head by a fistful of hair and Q groans, full and dark and needy.  ”Beating, sir.  I—both are good, whatever sir wants, but.  Please, sir, the beating first.”

Bond’s breath escapes him in a gust; he suspects Q would look smug if he weren’t pleading so prettily.  The ginger has started its work.  Bond touches it and Q shakes.

The first slap takes them both by surprise, a startled little grunt escaping Q as Bond pulls his stinging hand back.  Five fingerprints glow stark and hot against Q’s skin.  He’s hit him much harder than he intended.  ”Red, yellow, green?” Bond checks, rubbing a soothing circle on Q’s spine.

“Yellow,” Q says tersely.

“Sorry, darling,” Bond tells him, dropping a reverent kiss to a shoulder blade.  The next two are barely taps, testing the spring and bounce of the flesh at hand before the fourth cups the underside of a cheek and lifts him up, altering his balance.  Q clenches, hard, around the plug, and the dam cracks; the next spank catches him half on that first still burning and he swears, hips jerking.

“Oh,  _fuck_  me,” he gasps, mouth open and wet inside his elbow.  ”Christ, you fucking brute.”

“Red—”

Q cuts him off.  ”Green.  Fuck.  Green.”

Bond palms him hot and solid, hand covering the pinking skin easily before he leaves another hand print; it’s not as hard as the first, but it’s harder than they’d agreed upon.  Q writhes, drops his arse, and curls around the ginger plug.

“Oh  _god_ ,” he wails, tucking his knee up.  There’s no discipline, but it sizzles under Bond’s skin to see him lose it like this.  He’s harder than he can remember being since his first furtive explorations under the bedcovers, and Q’s positively shaking.  His balls are tight against his body; Bond wonders what would happen if—he lands another heavy slap along the narrow band of pale skin between the darkening handprints and Q whimpers, actually  _whimpers_ , and tries to stagger back into a standing position.  Bond can hear him muttering to himself, a filthy litany of prayer and sex talk that makes him throb against his button fly.

“More?” he asks calmly.

“Give me a mo’,” Q manages, pulling himself up until his wobbling legs can hold him.  ”Just.”

Bond touches his arse and Q wavers dangerously, forehead crashing to his bound wrists.  His knees buckle, and Bond gently tugs him back into the fetching position Q had assumed when they started.  His legs won’t hold him in this position anymore, too far-flung to support the jelly of his spine and the way he wants to curl around the cock that’s flush with blood and heavy with it.  His arsehole’s twitching, almost spasming around the plug that’s got it hot red and irritated; Bond strokes the flat of his tongue across it and the broad base of the plug, tasting spice and musk and sharp, dark salt and Q sobs, just one great shuddering heave of his chest as he comes, and Bond can hear it splat across the floor.

He noses his way up and around the plug, ginger oils burning his tongue as each agonized squeeze of Q’s muscles milk out more until his tongue is thick and swollen and tingling in his mouth and Q is completely boneless in his grasp.  When he comes up for air, Q makes an inefficient attempt to pull away, unable to do much more than twitch and shiver, and Bond laughs.

He unties Q’s wrists and they find themselves curled up on the couch, Q languidly and peacefully sucking his cock.  It doesn’t take long—he’s been on edge since he’d first seen that arse spread wide for him—and as he comes, his fingers tangle deep in Q’s mop of hair.  He makes contented noises as Q licks him clean again; Q looks up at him through wet lashes and smiles like a demon.  ”Next time, I’ll let you use the tawse.”


End file.
